


Shave and a Haircut

by MezzaMorta



Series: Quartet [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Body Shaving, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Boys In Love, Companionable Snark, Consensual Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Facial Shaving, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Hair Kink, John is a Horndog, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft is a Softie, Porn with Feelings, Shaving Kink, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Top Greg Lestrade, Top Mycroft, Voyeurism, shower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 05:44:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14909468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MezzaMorta/pseuds/MezzaMorta
Summary: Sherlock needs a haircut, but he really doesn't want one. The boys find out why, and get more of a treat than they were expecting.





	Shave and a Haircut

**Author's Note:**

> Just a one-shot, which I hope you enjoy. x

Sherlock was making notes from his latest experiment, minding his own business at Mycroft’s large kitchen table, when his peace was disturbed without warning.

“Lock, you need a haircut.”

His heart sank. This again.

“No, I don’t, Greg,” he replied automatically, continuing to scribble his in-depth analysis of the chemical components of bus drivers’ sweat in different London boroughs.

Again, he was rudely interrupted. “You do, darl. Look at it, you can hardly see out of your fringe!”

He scowled without looking up. “Don’t want to. No time. Doing notes.”

“You’ll have to get one, mate,” chimed in John, from over his cuppa. “Or he’ll make you wear hairpins out on cases.”

Sherlock slammed his pencil down in fury. “He will not! Shut up, John, nobody asked you.”

“What? I agree with Greg. It’s all flyaway and crazy. Go down the road when we get back to Baker Street,” said John, casually.

“I’m not going to let some seventeen-year-old butcher with clippers mangle my hair, thank you!” riposted the indignant detective.

“I go there,” said John, irritably.

“Exactly my point. Looks like someone took a hedge strimmer to you.”

“Oi, behave!” John protested, running his hand through his hair subconsciously.

Greg shook his head in exasperation as he took the orange juice out of the huge fridge. He came over to his thoroughly put-out, somewhat shaggy-headed lover and toyed with a few stray strands behind his ears.

“Why don’t you do it yourself, love? Just clip it back a bit. Be neater.”

Sherlock batted him away with both hands.

“Yeah,” agreed John, deciding to continue to wade in. “You’re moulting. Keep finding your curly locks everywhere. One in my breakfast this morning, that big it was.” He held his hands an unrealistic distance apart.

“How’d you know it’s all from my head, though, John?” shot back Sherlock, smirking unpleasantly.

John had the bit between his teeth now and would be so easily thrown off his stride.

“Been up close and personal enough to tell the difference. Not that you’ve got much of it in the first place, smooth little otter that you are…” He sipped his tea innocently as Greg glared at him to stop winding up their volatile lad.

“I am not a smooth little otter!” said Sherlock in predictable outrage.

Greg sat down, going for firm but friendly, hoping that playful coaxing would do the trick. “Get yer hair cut, scruff,” he said, roguishly, ruffling the overgrown mane.

Sherlock ducked his head in a huff and tried to resume his work. He waved an imperious hand.

“No, Greg. No time, too busy. See? I have a pencil.”

“Get your hair cut or I’ll put it in bunches with ribbons,” teased John, not willing to let it slide. He really was sick of finding long-and-curlies in his porridge.

“Don’t you dare!” demanded Sherlock, standing up to confront him with what he hoped was great gravitas.

“Why don’t I do it for you?” said John, cheerfully. “I can only do a short back and sides, squaddie-style, but I’ll give it a go.”

“Sod off, Watson!” said Sherlock, gathering up his papers and preparing to storm off.

“All right, I’ll do it,” sighed Greg. “Anyone got a bowl? I’ll just cut round that.”

“Greg, stop being awful!” whined Sherlock, finding no allies whatsoever.

“It’ll have to be Myc, then.”

“What?” said the poor, tormented detective, stopping short and eyeing his monstrous lovers with deep suspicion.

Greg paused and looked at him in surprise. “Get Mycie to do it. He’ll like doing it,” he said, guilelessly.

“Of course he will,” agreed John. “Mycie likes doing everything when it comes to him, doesn’t he?”

“Cos he’s a sucker for whining,” chortled Greg, cheekily.

Sherlock glared and tried to cover for the definite air of discomposure his lovers were reading from him.

“He is not, he’s horrible to me - he won’t even let me have a pet ferret!” he said, disbelievingly, throwing in an age old grievance to try and divert their attention.

“Er, none of us will let you have a pet ferret,” corrected Greg.

John snorted. “You’ll only end up using it in some godawful experiment! But only after I’ve cleaned its cage a million times and spent a fortune on vet bills.”

Sherlock felt on safer territory now.

“I would not use it in an experiment! Unless scientifically necessary. I’d look after it, and feed it interesting things, and call it Gerald.”

“No Gerald. Vetoed,” said Greg with finality, drawing a big X sign in the air.

“None of you wants me to be happy!” yelled Sherlock, with theatrical despair.

“No, we don’t, we much prefer it when you’re a rotten little brat in need of a haircut. And possibly a hiding,” replied Greg, ominously.

Fortunately for all, the cavalry arrived in the nick of time. Mycroft, in his weekend casual look of soft shirt and only mildly tweedy trousers, made his entrance - unwittingly, but not unsurprisingly, into the middle of a mid-morning disagreement.

“What’s this about? Please don’t tell me this is Gerald again, because…,” he began, but was cut off by Greg.

“No, love. Haircut. Lock needs one but he won’t bloody get one. Any ideas?”

The brothers shared an odd, confidential little look. Not at all what their lovers expected to see.

“Ooh, something we don’t know?” enquired John, curiously.

Sherlock sniffed and remained silent. Now they were just unnerved.

“What?” asked Greg, desperately intrigued by this overt Holmesian conspiracy of silence.

Mycroft seemed to be asking some telepathic question of Sherlock, who after a while released a long-suffering sigh and nodded. John leaned forward, his brow creased as he tried to discern what the jig was.

"Lock, I shall strike a bargain with you,” said Mycroft, reasonably. “Allow me to cut your hair, and I'll give you a nice shave too."

Sherlock's ears seemed to prick up, and he looked a little shyly up at his elder brother.

"Ooh... Yes?" he asked, trying not to give away too much enthusiasm. It was always difficult to dismount from a high horse, especially in front of partners you’ve been trying to hold firm against.

Mycroft nodded benevolently.

"Wouldn't you like that? With the lovely straight razor I bought for you?"

Sherlock considered this, looking off to one side, embarrassed at how easily his brother could play him. "Yes...perhaps..."

"So…you don't have a problem with your brother cutting your barnet?" interrupted Greg, unable to hold back the question. 

Mycroft turned towards him, a little hesitantly. "Erm. That's because I always do it, Gregory," he confessed.

"You what?!" exclaimed John, genuinely caught by surprise. Then he saw Sherlock's face fall slightly, and knew his reaction was exactly the wrong one. He winced and leaned across the table to stroke his flatmate's arm in apology at contravening the softly-softly approach. 

"He won't let anyone else do it, will you, sweet boy?" said Mycroft, covering for John's slight misjudgment of tone. He came up behind his brother and placed his hands upon his shoulders.

"Shut up, Mycroft!" moaned Sherlock, squirming in his seat. 

"Oi, less rudeness. We're having a conversation, nobody's teasing you," said Greg, reasonably. 

Sherlock turned his head away haughtily, attempting to disguise his sulk before he got himself into too much trouble. He was feeling a little bit raw, but didn't feel quite like having a full tantrum to cover it. He really did need a haircut. He just needed persuading, and had decided to allow it now his brother was here. He settled on "Hmph!" as the compromise response. 

"So you do it for him regularly, love?" Greg asked Mycroft, stroking his arm affectionately.

"Yes. When he asks. Or when I insist, because he starts looking like a Dickensian urchin." 

"Aw, mate. That's really... It's really nice, actually," said John, rather touched. 

"He doesn't like blades near his eyes and ears,” explained Mycroft, simply. “Overly sensitive. That's why he wears it long in the first place. Has done since he was a little one."

Sherlock now looked mildly distressed at the very idea of a haircut, let alone at the idea of his private - and as far as he was concerned, very childish - phobia suddenly being discussed so freely. 

"I don't like the cutting noise so close. Don't look at me like that, I can't help it! Lestrade doesn't like the dentist, nobody gets at him about it!" he wailed, defensively, feeling exposed by the wondering glances being cast at him. 

Greg held up a placating hand. "We know, love. It's all right. I do still go to the dentist though," he said quickly, at the warning glare being directed his way from the only medical professional in the room.

"And I still get my hair cut, it's just that Mycie does it...," replied Sherlock, shuffling awkwardly on the spot.

"But you don't mind being shaved?" asked John, curious to discover yet another facet of Sherlockian idiosyncrasy. 

The detective shook his head and shrugged somewhat sheepishly. 

"No. That's different. I don't know. It feels nice. Smooth and...clean. I like it."

"Surely it should feel more dangerous?" probed John, as keen to understand his extraordinary, enigmatic partner as always.

Sherlock nodded, equally puzzled by himself. "I suppose so. But if the razor slips, I get cut, and I can handle that. If the scissors slip, I get my ear snipped off or my eye poked out! Or a blade jabbed into my skull. I don't want things near my eyes or in my brain!" he exclaimed, as though someone had threatened to do it to him on purpose. 

Greg shushed him and pulled his chair in to give him a reassuring cuddle. 

"Shush. OK, don't get worked up. It's all right, baby."

"How have we not known this before?!" said John, amazed that something so apparently simple should have been concealed. "I thought you just did it yourself or went to someone. Didn't realise it was a whole thing. Sorry, mate. Never thought to ask." 

"S'all right," said Sherlock, in a voice muffled against Greg's shoulder. 

"Oh, John, dear. I hope you don't feel - if you'll pardon the excruciating pun - cut out of the loop. It's been rather a lifelong secret of ours, I suppose," said Mycroft, frowning slightly. "We ought to have told you, but..."

"Never thought to mention it," said Sherlock, fiddling with Greg's shirt buttons now.

"No, indeed. And also, well..." Mycroft tailed off, going a little pink about the ear-tips. 

"Too un-Holmesian," finished Greg, perceptively. "Vulnerabilities and all that shit. Too embarrassing. For Lock to admit his big brother still cuts his hair, and for Myc to admit he likes playing hairdressers with baby brother." 

"Ahem. Yes, something of that nature," said Mycroft, airily, acknowledging the hit with a tip of the head. 

"You two are the bloody limit, you know," laughed John. "As if we'd care! As if we don't all know each other's embarrassing little weaknesses already. Well, you know mine. Sudden loud noises. Bit of claustrophobia. General terror of lightning, which I still think might kill me. So... Can you sort his bonce out today? Or are you too horrified, Lock? Didn't mean to pressure you about it. You know you could grow it into a mullet and I wouldn't mind. That much."

Sherlock screwed his face up in reluctance and said nothing. 

Mycroft folded his arms and regarded the recalcitrant detective rather sternly from above. Sherlock looked up and back at him, seeing his brother’s ‘serious eyebrows’ from upside down.

"Come now, dearest. It'll have to be done. You do rather look like you've been plugged into the mains."

"I do not! I look like a..."

"A pirate, yes, I know. Now, be a sensible boy, and you can have a treat afterwards," said Mycroft, with heavy suggestiveness.

This was more like it, thought Sherlock. What did a chap have to do to get a bit of consideration round here? 

"Ooh... All right!" he conceded. "Horrid haircut. Then extra special nice treat," he said, pointing a finger to make certain. 

"Want some privacy, or...?" enquired Greg, feigning innocence.

"Or may you watch, Gregory?" enquired Mycroft, his lips quirking at the edges.

Sherlock sighed in an overly put-upon way at his brother's questioning look, before answering.

"Yes, Greg, you can watch while big brother takes the shears to my crowning glory. And Watson too, even though he doesn’t deserve it." He said, smiling beneath his fake-scowl.

John hopped up and clapped his hands. "I know, I’m a brute. I'm only in it for the shaving. Sexy," he said, waggling his eyebrows.

"You think spoons are sexy," admonished Sherlock. 

"Spoons?!" cried John. 

"I don't know, I was trying to think of something banal, and spoons were the first thing that came to mind."

John shrugged as if to say, 'fine, have it your way, spoons it is'.

"Excellent. Come on, then, dearest. Get it over with. Hair wash first," ordered Mycroft, firmly, tapping his brother’s shoulder encouragingly.

"Ooh, noooo!" whinged Sherlock, who hated being only partially wet. It made his neck tingle in a creepy way he really didn't care for, and he loathed it when drips of water ran down his back whilst clothed.

"Shower then?" asked John, casually. 

"Yeah, shower. But you wash me," demanded Sherlock, not anticipating any answer other than the one he received.

"Er, yeah. Love to," said John, mildly surprised at being asked. Well, told. 

Sherlock grinned delightedly and stripped off where he was, like someone who really hadn't planned on staying dressed today anyway. He bounded nakedly to the upstairs bathroom. All three of them shared a knowing look, and followed on like horny zombies, enticed by the sight of the pale, wobbling backside disappearing up the stairs - each man with the thought 'what a view' on their minds. 

In Mycroft's very large, very tastefully decorated black and white bathroom, Sherlock flung himself into the large glass shower cubicle and stood there expectantly, looking more dignified than a naked man with his hands on his hips really ought to. He made no move whatsoever to turn the water on. John rolled his eyes and tutted, reached in and set the water temperature. Sherlock gradually moved under the powerful spray. The room filled with steam, and Greg took a seat on the closed toilet lid. Sherlock giggled at him.

Mycroft ignored them, and rummaged in the cabinet for the shaving kit and clean towels. "We'll do it in my room, all right, Lock?" he said. Sherlock nodded and continued to splash about under the shower to no real effect.

"Get on with it before I change my mind! John, wash me!"

John eyed the heavens. "Yes, Prince bloody Charming, only here to do your bidding, aren't I?" he muttered, knowing he protested too much. He stripped his own clothes off and got into the shower, which was easily large enough for four of them. 

Sherlock flopped against him, generously letting the shorter man take his weight. 

"You bloody great lump. Stand up, you lazy git," complained John, squirting some of Mycroft's very expensive shampoo into his hand and lathering it into the bird's nest of dark, wet curls. 

"Ow, pulling!" whined Sherlock, as John scrubbed rather mercilessly at his head - accidentally on purpose in revenge for being jostled and pouted at. 

"Not pulling, stand still!" came the doctor's impatient demand. 

"You _are_ pulling! It's like being in a car wash!"

John tutted and put shampoo into his own hair. Sherlock rubbed at it viciously, pulling it up into spikes.

"Hedgehog," he giggled. John grinned and attacked his arse with a wet, soapy smack which ricocheted off the tiles. Mycroft chuckled and Sherlock glowered at him through adorably long, wet eyelashes.

"Boys, don't make me come in there, I've already had my shower today," warned Greg, looking on with great interest at Holmes and Watson naked in the shower. It was hardly a new sight. But he had flashbacks to a time many years ago, when such an image played through his mind as mere fantasy, back when they were just colleagues working cases together. Colleagues who had the secret horn for each other, admittedly. Such thoughts had got him through many a very dull midnight stakeout.

Sherlock scowled through the glass at him from underneath his soapy, bedraggled locks, looking a lot more like a disgruntled moggy than a fierce crime-fighting genius.

Greg grinned up at him, and the bright bluey-silver eyes sparkled. Sherlock poked his tongue out affectionately, until his head was assaulted once again by blunt, soapy fingers.

"Ow, it's in my eyes! John, you're supposed to be washing it off not just soaping me up! He's trying to clean my eyes!" Sherlock slapped at his hands, sending bubbles flying.

"You're fidgeting all over the shop - why can't you just behave?!" riposted John in despair.

He grabbed the wiggling detective - all the more otter-like now - and shoved him directly under the spray. Sherlock spluttered in outrage, but stood passively while John rinsed the suds from both of them. Then he rubbed some conditioner between his hands and pulled it slowly through the tangled mess of Sherlock's mane, smoothing out the really very long strands which bounced back into ringlets beneath his fingertips. 

"Mm. Nice. Think you need a bit more of a scrub though...," John said, brushing water out of his own eyes. He splodged some shower gel into his hand and briskly ran it over his lover's upper body, under his lightly-haired armpits, down his chest and to his groin, where his strokes slowed considerably. John worked the gel into his pubic hair and massaged it into his long, stiffening cock, paying particular attention to the ridge between the plump, ruddy head and thickening shaft.

“Sorry for teasing, love,” he said, quietly.

"Mmm, John-John...," groaned Sherlock, blissfully, as his nether regions were soaped and caressed, the gel acting as lubricant. John gently handled his lover's velvety balls, running his hand underneath and between his lean thighs, insinuating up and under. He pressed himself to the lithe, dripping body, rubbing his own thickening hard-on against Sherlock's, generating more bubbles which fizzed deliciously against their pricks. John's body tingled all over at the smooth, slippery slickness of wet skin-on-skin.

"Missed a bit, Johnnyboy?" asked Greg, breathing a little heavier, and gesturing at him to turn Sherlock round. 

John took the hint, and turned him. He massaged Sherlock's soft bottom with both hands, as runnels of bubbly water ran down the ridge of his lower back and over the peachy mounds of flesh, blushing from the heat of the water. John ran a finger up and down the crevice between them, and pressed firmly at the centre. Sherlock keened, placed both hands against the tiled wall, bent at the waist, and spread his legs wantonly, letting himself be exposed to his other lovers. John squeezed a little more gel onto his fingers and stroked at the tight, pink aperture, slipping just the tip of his forefinger in and out, slowly and smoothly. Sherlock made a meowing noise that suited his drowned-cat appearance, and he gazed over his shoulder, biting his lip in direct provocation to the two tormented onlookers.

Greg groaned helplessly and rubbed at himself through his trousers, but paused when Mycroft cleared his throat politely and laid a hand gently upon his shoulder.

"Don't get too carried away, Gregory. The best is yet to come. You may want to save yourself...," he said, with a twinkle in his eye. 

Greg knew better than to ignore a Mycroftian twinkle. 

"Just want to make sure he's really clean..." said Greg, with boyish charm.

"Yes, of course you do, dear," said Mycroft, patting his arm reassuringly. 

Greg squeezed the elder Holmes's pert backside and winked. "Your hair's gone all loose in the steam, love," he said, with distinct adoration in his gaze. Mycroft huffed self-consciously and brought a hand to his unruly forelock. He wiped the steamy mirror and shook his head in despair at his appearance, trying in vain to flatten his cowslick back into place. 

"Mycie's all curly too," Sherlock giggled from over his shoulder, as John continued to circle his twitching arsehole. 

Greg smacked Mycroft's bottom playfully. "Oi, don't you dare slick it all up again. Love it like that. Look like you've been shagged silly all night and only just got up."

"Well, three hours ago, that was true," said Mycroft, evenly. "I despair of genetics, I really do. Baby brother has the sweet curls, I have the stupid ones."

Mycroft yelped as his arse was smacked a lot harder the second time. "None of that bollocks, now," said Greg, firmly. "Fucking sexy is what that front curly bit is. Denigrate it at your peril, Mycie Holmes." He raised a warning finger and Mycroft gulped delightedly. 

"Y-yes, Gregory." 

Their attention was diverted by some deep groaning from the shower cubicle. John was now crouching down, licking water up from the head of Sherlock's bobbing prick, and Sherlock was pinching at his own nipple with one hand, gripping John's wet hair with the other.

"Gentlemen, please. Tempting as I know it is... We have work to do," said Mycroft, back in the driving seat once more.

Sherlock moaned as John stood back up, and reluctantly turned the water off. He shook himself and tried to think cold thoughts. 

"Yep. Fair enough. Out you get, mate," John said, smacking Sherlock wetly again and bundling him out of the shower. 

Sherlock grumbled, but his eyes lit up when he saw Greg holding up a large towel fresh from the radiator. 

"All right if I get the drying privileges?" asked the D.I., his brown eyes kind and soft.

Sherlock nodded bashfully and let himself be wrapped up and hugged into the towel. John quickly dried himself off, his hair still sticking up from where Sherlock had pulled at it. He mischievously threw a smaller towel straight over the lanky man's head, and received a squeak of protest for his trouble. He rubbed at Sherlock's hair none too gently. 

"Bloody Watson! Too rough! I'm not a dog!" 

"No, you're a damp little kittycat," said Greg, sickly sweet.

John and Greg shared a chuckle, at the "Yuck!" this comment so richly deserved. 

Greg rubbed at Sherlock's lissom body with pragmatic vigour, patting gently between his legs, and taking a little more time than was necessary to dab dry his perky bottom cheeks. He sighed with pleasure as Sherlock relaxed his head onto his shoulder, and he tied the towel round his youngest lover's slim waist, gazing appreciatively at his compact abs and sinewy torso. Sherlock's pale skin was flushed with the warmth of the shower and the invigorating rub-down. His blood pumped to the surface, rendering him a bit floppy and boneless. All to the good, given how tense he was about the forthcoming ordeal. 

"John, would you bring a bowl of warm water in, please?" asked Mycroft, leading the way to his master bedroom.

John hastened to do as he was told, feeling like a weekend barber shop assistant. 

"Come on, love. Shave and a haircut," said Greg, cheerfully. Sherlock pouted and let himself be led by the arm. John followed on, also with a towel round his waist, being careful not to spill water over the posh carpet.

In the bedroom, Mycroft laid towels out across the whole bed and placed shiny items from the kit to one side - a cut-throat straight razor, an ordinary but expensively well-made safety razor, a silver bowl with a block of shaving cream set into it, a lathering brush, and a slim pair of scissors.

"Come and sit on the edge here, Lock," he said, patting it. Sherlock sniffed and did so, leaning back on his hands. He looked up at his brother slightly nervously.

Greg took a seat at the stool set before the large dressing table opposite them, which Sherlock so often mocked his brother for possessing - pure envy, in Mycroft's opinion. John hopped up onto the bed and propped himself against the headboard. From this position he could see Mycroft and Greg face-on and the back of Sherlock; but also his front reflected in the mirror above the dressing table. 

Mycroft winced suddenly as he noticed John's state of dress.

"John, no damp towels on the bed, I beg you. Take that off," he pleaded. Then, for added incentive, he truthfully said, "Rather more fun for me to look at too, if I may say so."

"You may say so, Myc, you may." John grinned and stripped the towel off extravagantly. He dropped it over the side, enjoying the way they all craned round and eyed him with approval. He played idly with his half-hard cock, one leg bent up at the knee, just to give them a better view. Mycroft gave him a look of quiet thirst, raising one dark eyebrow and licking his lower lip. John beamed, flushed from a heady combination of the shower, the erection, and from being the subject of Holmesian lusts. 

Mycroft coughed and brought himself back to his task. "Gregory, be a dear and pass me that hairbrush on the top there," he asked politely. Greg handed it to him, smirking mischievously.

Sherlock shuddered and made a disgusted face.

"Ugh, I hate that brush!" 

"Only because it's the one Gregory spanked you with," said Mycroft, matter-of-factly. 

"Oh, yeah, so it is!" chuckled Greg, disingenuously. He recalled the occasion vividly. Sherlock had tried to rewire Mycroft's bedroom telly - a posh flatscreen that appeared from the wall when you pressed a control switch from the bed - to record them all having sex. Without asking permission or thinking to mention it at all, naturally. Only an unfortunate short-circuiting incident had given it away. The wooden-backed brush was simply the most convenient item to hand, though Greg correctly deduced that it had been purchased with just such a use in mind. 

Mycroft rolled his shirt sleeves up. 

"You mock, you dreadful beasts, but this is where arm garters come in useful," he groused, pleased at the tension-breaking laugh he had intended to elicit. He heard Sherlock's quiet snort of amusement, and noticed his shoulders drop imperceptibly lower. 

Suppressing a smile, he brushed his brother's damp hair with perfunctory movements, as Sherlock winced and growled in displeasure. When he'd set the natural parting and untangled the worst bits, he placed a small towel round the pale shoulders, and one on the floor beneath them. Then he picked up the scissors. Sherlock's nose and forehead wrinkled into a frown, and he ducked his head. Mycroft reached out gently to hold his brother's chin in one hand, and tilted his head slightly upwards to meet his eye.

"Trust me, Lockie?" he asked, softly.

"Yes," came the instant, quiet answer. 

"Good boy. If it gets too much, hold up a hand. No jerking. Just stay still, face Gregory, look at John in the mirror, and think of all the lovely fun we'll have once your disgraceful mop is neatened up. All right?"

Sherlock nodded, compressing his lips in mild anxiety. 

Mycroft turned his brother's head to the front, and placed a protective hand just behind his ear on the side he intended to start with. 

"Mycie!" said Sherlock, abruptly, holding up a hand. Mycroft removed the scissors instantly.

"Yes, darling?"

"Erm, not too short, OK?" he said, tentatively, playing for time so he could get his heart rate down a bit. 

"No. I don't like it too short on you either, do I?"

"No," came the meek little reply.

Greg and John exchanged glances, shaking their head in helpless fondness at this display of Holmesian intimacy. 

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly and bit the inside of his cheek as Mycroft began to carefully snip and cut at the dark coils corkscrewing round his ears and neck. John watched mesmerised as they cascaded down the long, unblemished back and onto the white towel below.

Mycroft completed a round of cutting, front, sides and back. He stepped away to check on progress. 

"Scissors are away now, Lock. You can open your eyes if you like. I'm just checking I haven't made you lopsided, or given you a monk's tonsure." 

Sherlock opened his eyes and scowled. He folded his arms and looked up with a mighty frown on his face.

"Hurry up. Getting bored!"

"Yes, dear," sighed Mycroft, in an overly put-upon fashion. "Eyes closed again. And mouth too, please." 

Greg huffed a short laugh through his nose.

Sherlock hastily obeyed, still screwing his face up and biting his lip as though someone were driving needles under his nails.

The elder Holmes continued to take a few inches off the ends of his brother's overgrown mop-top, occasionally interrupted by moments of squeamishness. 

"Eyes!" called Sherlock, holding up a hand, unable to help himself as his fringe was dealt with. "Ears!", when his sideburns were trimmed. He grumbled to himself after each automatic exclamation, muttering self-recriminations about being irrational and illogical and stupid, as irritated by his own perceived weakness as he always was.

Mycroft patiently let him protest and readjust, then resumed when he settled back down - an obviously well-practiced routine. He finally set down the scissors when he was satisfied with the overall effect, and brushed away the remaining loose locks of hair - still looped in curl form - that adorned his little brother's shoulders and neck. He set the towel down and regarded his customer with a professional eye. 

"There," he said, nodding with a sense of achievement. 

"New locks for Lock," quipped John, to general groaning. 

"That was worthy of me," said Greg, approvingly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Neat as a new pin, baby brother. Well done," said Mycroft, with deliberate generosity. 

“Don't patronise me!" snapped Sherlock petulantly, before pressing his face to his brother's stomach and bringing his hands around his waist. He stayed still and let Mycroft's hands caress his freshly-trimmed head from above. They remained like that for a while; Mycroft looking down and stroking at the dark head with deep affection; Sherlock wriggling slightly, hiding his warm, blushing face from scrutiny. They all heard his wordless thank-you.

John thought it was the single most adorable thing he'd ever witnessed, and he could tell that Greg was in raptures as well. 

"So...about that shave, brother mine?" queried Mycroft, breaking the spellbound moment. 

Sherlock looked up with wide eyes; his naughty glint returned. 

"Now, please!" he demanded, grinning. 

Mycroft smirked and shoved his brother back onto the bed. Sherlock laughed in glee, and wiggled his way up towards the headboard towards John. He turned briefly and placed a saucy little kiss to John's semi-erect penis, and felt Greg swoop in from behind to plant a smacking kiss, and a little bite, to his backside. 

They settled him back onto John, so he lay languidly against him like some debauched Roman pleasure slave. John's hands came over his lover's head to toy with and pinch at his nipples. Mycroft cast a hot glare of want at them, and Greg started stripping him of his clothing, before making himself just as unashamedly nude.

Greg sat cross-legged on the side of the bed, stroking gently down Sherlock's thigh and across the flat plane of his tummy. 

Mycroft knelt up between his brother's spread legs. John passed him the bowl of lukewarm water from the nightstand, and he took it gratefully. 

Mycroft dipped the shaving brush into it, and began lathering up the cream soap from the silver bowl. When he had a soft, bouncy foam, he spread it round Sherlock's cheeks and chin, while his brother giggled in spite of himself. John held his young lover's head between his hands, to steady him and stop the foam going everywhere. Though he suspected that may be a losing battle. Still, Mycroft's sheets, Mycroft's problem, he figured.

Mycroft repositioned them both, so he was straddling the lanky legs now. And Sherlock suddenly went stock still, as his brother reached for the straight razor. 

They all seemed to hold their breath. 

"No wiggling now, Lock," warned the elder Holmes, unnecessarily. 

Sherlock shook his head, silently, his eyes blown wide. Greg noted that his cock had started to rise against gravity, almost as soon as the razor was held in the air. Mycroft passed the implement to him, and he looked back at him with surprise.

Mycroft gave a nod of encouragement, and with a silky leer in his voice said, "You open it for him, Gregory. He likes it when it opens."

Greg huffed a dirty little laugh. "Of course he does. Little pervert, in't he?" 

Sherlock's tongue gently licked the side of his mouth, and he gave a tiny, almost inaudible moan, as Greg very carefully unsheathed the shining blade with his fingertips, unfolding the straight razor from its white bone handle, pulling both ends gently apart until it was fully extended. Sherlock regarded him like he was watching a striptease, tongue practically hanging out. 

Greg inhaled through his teeth with a hiss. "Ooh, yes. You like that, don't you, doll? Sharp and shiny instruments."

"Nice bit of kit," breathed John, almost afraid to speak in the suddenly tense, febrile atmosphere. 

Mycroft smirked with a filthy look in his eye. 

"Oh, yes. Finest chased silver. Very sharp. Best used by an expert hand. Which mine is," he said huskily. Proudly.

"I'll bet," said Greg, handing it over with care.

"Lockie's not allowed to touch it, are you, Lockie?"

Sherlock shook his head definitively. "No. Not allowed, brother." 

"Too dangerous for little boys to play with, isn't it?"

"Mm-hm. Want it, Mycie...," he whined, helplessly, thrusting his groin in the air, his cock quivering and emitting a tiny bead of clear liquid at the slit. He felt the familiar thrum of fire through his groin. It spread up into his belly as pure, animal arousal hit his bloodstream.

"Farkin'ell..." groaned John, watching as the little droplet pushed its way out and dripped ever so slowly down the full length of his lover's long, rigid cock. All this before the razor had even kissed his skin.

"Be still now, Sherlock," commanded Mycroft, using his full name to emphasise the point. Sherlock instantly obeyed. "John, hold his head straight and very still." 

John did as he was told, while Mycroft knelt either side of his brother's bare body and moved himself further upwards, holding the razor out to the side, the blade facing away. 

Mycroft's own semi-erect prick jutted forwards, untouched and aching, but he ignored it as he edged closer, looming over his brother's upper body. He tilted his hips away to prevent his prick being stimulated on Sherlock's chest, to avoid any unsafe distraction. Then he bent down towards his brother's lively, eager face - his expression only offset by the slightly absurd adornment of shaving foam. Mycroft made sure he had plenty of room to manoeuvre, and double checked that he had enough manual control of the instrument at hand. 

With a serious, intent expression on his patrician features, Mycroft gripped his brother's chin in one hand, then very gently, almost barely touching, scraped the cool, glinting blade down his cheek. Sherlock inhaled and exhaled steadily, whilst Greg and John tried not to gasp. Mycroft moved the blade under Sherlock's nose, over his chin and under his jaw in slow succession. He was, unsurprisingly, methodical and precise, as he smoothed away the day's growth of stubble. He tilted his wrist and hand expertly round the contours of his brother's fine bone-structure; down over the prominent, sculptural cheekbones, round the sharp edges of his mandible. He dexterously caressed the vulnerable Adam's apple with feather-light touches - the razor sharp enough to warrant only the most minimal pressure.

Each time he completed a section of skin, he withdrew the silver blade, washed the foam off, and wiped it with the towel, being very careful to show his three partners where the razor's edge was at all times, to eliminate, as far as possible, any opportunity for accident. Sherlock, though tempted to let his eyes roll back in sheer bliss at the physical sensation, nevertheless kept them wide open to focus solely on Mycroft, as he knew was required of him. Ceding control of his body to his brother's skillful hand and being tended to so considerately took him to far-off places, but staying lucid was part of the bargain here. No Mind Palace wandering or erotic daydreaming allowed. He had to stay connected to the moment, which was part of the moment's power. 

When Mycroft was finished, he narrowed his eyes and assessed his work. Content at a job well done, he gave the blade one last wipe, and handed it wordlessly to Gregory, who sheathed it and placed it to one side, feeling a slight tremor run through his fingers. Mycroft retreated from his straddling position and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing an adoring hand over Sherlock's shiny smooth face. 

Greg felt like he hadn't exhaled in ten minutes, and his reverie was punctured by John's deep groan, as he too exhaled as if for the first time, and relaxed back into the headboard. 

"Bloody fucking hell...," he breathed, awestruck and panting.

Sherlock hummed with pleasure as the remaining foam was fastidiously wiped gently from his neck. Mycroft beamed down at him and then up at John and Gregory, noting the same dilated, hungry look in their eyes as they saw in his. 

"Lockie...?" he crooned, in a sultry tone. 

"Hm?" murmured the dreamy younger Holmes.

"Seeing as we have an appreciative audience... Would you like me to shave  _all_ of you?" 

John slammed his head against the headboard and Greg almost fell off the bed. 

"Yes," they both flatly replied simultaneously, before Sherlock could speak. Mycroft chuckled indulgently. 

Sherlock smirked, said nothing, and rolled off to one side. John took the hint and moved off, coming to sit just in front of Greg, who instantly fell upon his neck from behind and began nipping at it with his teeth. His hands played with the other man's fully hard cock, stimulating it to wetness. Greg thrust his own rampant hard-on into the crease at the top of John's neat little arse, pressing into him and keeping them both in a hopelessly randy state as they awaited the next part of the show. 

They watched in awe as Sherlock laid himself fully out so his whole body was stretched and pulled taut. He raised one knee raised coquettishly up, arched his back up sensuously, and brought his arms above his head, where his hands played with his newly-shortened curls. 

"Mm, brother mine," he wheedled, teasingly. "Make me all smooth and slinky..." 

"It will itch terribly when it grows back, you know," Mycroft warned, disingenuously. 

"I know, but...," pleaded Sherlock, playing along. 

"You'll be all fidgety and scratchy unless you moisturise like you're supposed to," said Mycroft, wagging his finger in admonition.

"John can cream me up at home," he replied, casting a lascivious glare at his flushed and perspiring flatmate.

"Yep. Can do that," confirmed the man in question, head swimming at the very idea.

"Aw, what about me?" complained Greg, teasingly.

"Mm, you can wait for it to grow back, and I'll let you wax me next time... I like that too. More painful," he quipped, with a cheeky grin. 

"Bloody get on with it, you two. Lestrade's this close to tipping me over and buggering me cross-eyed. I'm fine with that, but I want to see this first," chuckled John, thrusting his arse back and forth on the crown of Greg's leaking prick.

Mycroft gave a feral, possessive smile and began lathering up his brush once more. Without a word he covered Sherlock's legs in creamy foam, and, using the safety razor this time, removed the light dusting of dark hair that adorned them. He ran the razor down each calf, down each thigh. Sherlock flipped himself over obligingly when the front was done, so the backs of his legs would be equally shorn. Then Mycroft flipped him back over again. Sherlock kept his arms raised above him in submission, and Mycroft foamed up his armpits, shaving them to smoothness too, whilst the younger Holmes made whimpering gasps - little oohs and ahhs of delight - and shivered as all his nerve endings came alight. 

Mycroft stroked the shaving brush around his little brother's nipples, over the soft whorls of hair that circled each pink bud; then to the trail of barely-there fuzz at the centre of his chest, and round his small, dent of a bellybutton. With a hand that was far steadier than it ought to have been in the face of such provocation, he softly brushed the razor round the nipples, following the trail of shaving cream down the prominent dip between them, and down past the firm abdomen, round that sweet little button. He smoothed the remnants of foam and loose hair away with a damp towel, and took in the magnificent sight of so much pale, depilated skin on display; creamy and dewy from water, and foam, and sweat. 

Sherlock pushed up suddenly, catching his brother's mouth in a passionate kiss, working his tongue round his mouth and groaning into him. His hands tangled in his brother's hair and he messed it up with glee.

Mycroft sank down upon him, writhing on top of the freshly-shaven torso, gripping the jutting hips, and thrusting his cock between his brother's smooth, hairless thighs.

Sherlock felt Greg and John's hands on his legs, as they delighted in the novelty of silky, soft, masculine skin, and he shivered electrically from top to toe.

"Oh, _fuck_ , oh, God, you little..." rumbled Mycroft, driven to near-madness by this heightened pleasure - the intimate act of taking the blade to his little brother, and the sheer sensation of those silky thighs around his burning prick.

Sherlock moaned and panted into his ear, and Mycroft almost let himself go completely, rutting helplessly close to the brink. He felt the catch of hair at their groins and was reminded of his mission.

With great difficulty, but with all the determination the stubborn Holmes brain allowed for, he lifted himself back up, shaking with barely concealed ardour as he tried to cling on to his control just a little longer. 

"Lock. Be still," he ordered, in a hoarse, broken voice. "And you two," he said, to their lovers beside them.

Sherlock obeyed instantly. He looked up to see John all but sitting in Greg's lap now, as Greg thrust between his cheeks. The mattress was wobbling from their play, and they too stilled as they realised the next bit required full concentration and no sudden movements. 

"Johnny, you lather up the brush. Gregory, you apply it?" said Mycroft, half-commanding, half-asking. 

Good strategy, thought John, smiling inwardly. Make us useful or we'll make a right old mess before this is finished.

He did as he was asked, and handed the lathery brush to Greg, who applied it to the very top of Sherlock's pubic hair. Unlike himself, their Lock was not a hirsute beast, but what there was of it was just as dark and curly and lush as the rest of him. 

Sherlock whimpered with pleasure as the brush made contact with his pubic mound, and in the creases of his legs. 

Mycroft took up the razor once more, and bent low, raising his bare backside high in the air, much to his lovers' contentment. Greg longed to plunge his face to that delicious-looking target, but reminded himself not to be distracting. He bit his lip and squeezed his cock a bit, hoping to temper its desperation with a bit of self-discipline. 

Focusing in with intense concentration, Mycroft delicately shaved along the grain of his brother's pubic hair, trimming it down, but not off completely. It really would itch like the devil if he stripped him entirely bald. 

"Just tidying, Lockie. Just making it neat all round. All right?"

"Mm-hm," moaned Sherlock, incoherent with pleasure. He let his brother lift each of his legs in turn, and felt the razor being run softly over his most delicate, sensitive skin, around the ridge of his perineum and lower in the crease beneath. 

John watched, utterly rapt, forgetting to touch himself momentarily. Greg was biting his lip, trying so hard not to just come in his hand. 

When the job was done, Sherlock's cock stood proudly above a very neat little area of newly shorn flesh.

"Very picturesque, love," joked Greg. Sherlock giggled and Mycroft snorted.

"Well, if you think that's nice...," Mycroft said, deliberately enigmatic. He winked down at his little brother. 

Sherlock smirked saucily, blew a little air kiss towards his lovers, and slowly, with full feline provocation, turned himself over onto his front, came up onto his knees, and presented up his bare bum like a cat in heat. 

"Oh, fuck me," groaned John, with a noise of such utter sexuality that all three men looked at him to check he hadn't keeled over. 

"Do it, Mycie," begged Sherlock, enjoying the torture he was putting them through. "Shave me  _there_... So it'll be all extra soft when you lick me..."

Mycroft's head fell back in desire, but he recovered his wits enough to plant a hard spank on one temptingly upturned cheek. 

Sherlock yipped, but giggled. He kind of knew he'd deserved that. 

"You brazen little hussy, taunting these poor men with your shamelessness," scolded the elder Holmes, melodramatically. "But I think I might just do that..."

"Oh, Jesus fucking Christ, Myc, do it, quick as you can. I ain't gonna last much longer...," panted Greg, biting his own hand to prevent himself masturbating. 

"If you gentlemen can tear your hands away from yourselves for a moment, perhaps you can help me. Those delectable little cheeks won't part themselves, will they?" said the deep baritone of the elder Holmes. 

They hastened to comply, spreading Sherlock wide whilst he giggled with his face pressed into the mattress. 

"Such a smooth boy already," said Mycroft, talking to offset his need to plunge himself straight into his brother's receptive little hole. "Not much to dispense with, but we'd best do a thorough job. So pretty," he sighed, at the little curlicue wisps surrounding that inviting rosebud.

Sherlock whimpered as his hole was tickled by the bristles of the shaving brush, and again when he was anointed by the cold creamy foam. He moaned into the pillows, biting and gnashing at them, as a shivery, tingling pulse shot through his arse, up into his prostate, and sparked into his dripping, yearning prick. His hands clenched open and closed in front of him. He refused to touch himself just yet, waiting for the moment when...

"He likes the brush," said Mycroft, sensuously. "It's just right. Not too wiry, not too soft. He likes it just here...," he taunted, tickling again at the tight little opening, and underneath to the deliciously sensitive skin below it. He moved his hand lower still, reaching between the smooth thighs, and brushed firmly at Sherlock's low-hanging cock, stimulating his fraenulum in just the way calculated to send him into the stratosphere. John's mouth dropped opened at the sight.

"When he's a good boy, he gets the shaving brush, doesn't he?" crooned Mycroft, rhetorically. 

"Oh!" cried Sherlock, at the higher end of his vocal range. "Oh, Mycie! Oh!" 

"Mm, you darling boy, so ticklish. So turned _on_ for me. Does it make you tingle when I do...this...?" he asked, darkly, wiggling the bristles quickly back and forth on the tip of his cock, drawing it back up and almost frigging his brother's arsehole with it.

Sherlock yelped and meowed extravagantly; drawn-out, shrieking noises John could barely recall hearing from his lips before unless after a sustained period of teasing.

Greg gave up and just started wanking as furiously as he was desperate to. "Fucking hell, fucking...naughty little bastards...," he groaned.

"Gregory, control yourself. Look, he's quite helpless now. I'd better strip what little hair I can find round this precious little star, hm? Lockie?"

"Do-it-do-it...," pleaded Sherlock, long past dignity and unashamed to beg for what he wanted. 

Mycroft quickly and lightly shaved away the tiny, fine hairs surrounding his brother's quivering ring and the cleft of his backside, and wiped away the foam with the towel in an upwards motion that made Sherlock's hips lift up into the air. His back arched and he pushed his arse further out, desperate for any kind of contact. 

"Mycie, Mycie, do the brush again... Please, please!" Mycroft growled and pushed his desperate boy down, turning him onto his back. Sherlock lifted his knees to his chest in a seemingly well-rehearsed, familiar move. He hooked his shaking hands round the back of each knee, lifting his backside up for his brother's attention, and biting his lip in desperate want.

"This is what we do after he gets a haircut and a shave, my loves," confessed Mycroft, in his most guttural sex voice. "He gets stroked just here...and there...upon his newly shaven flesh; until he thrashes and gasps, and comes so hard for me I think either he or I, or both of us, might die from pleasure... He comes without any other touch. Oh, he comes so hard for his big brother...," said Mycroft, panting and dizzy from his own words.

Sherlock became incoherent as Mycroft repeatedly ran the shaving brush over his straining prick, paying special attention to the spot just below the plump, engorged corona. The bristles became stickier and wetter, but still the effect was the same. Sherlock was mindless - thrashing his head from side to side.

"Oh, OH! Mycie! Please!" he cried, thrusting his hips now, in dire need of more. Mycroft gave it to him, twirling and flicking the bristles in the same place on the tip of his over-sensitised cock. With his other hand, he dipped his finger into the shaving cream bowl and pushed his long slick forefinger up inside him. He crooked and angled it just so, and nudged repeatedly at the spongy gland which sent his brother into paroxysms, so that his cries spiralled ever higher and louder.

Neither John nor Greg could bear it any longer, and pounced upon a shaven nipple each, working them with tongues and fingers and teeth.

Then his entire smooth body locked out, and with a silent howl Sherlock shattered and shook himself to pieces as thick ropes of spunk spurted from his prick, splattering his freshly shaven chest and face.

Sherlock moaned ardently through his aftershocks as the men he loved licked and nibbled at him, completing a circuit of sparkling pleasure that ran from chest to cock to arsehole.

His lovers collapsed around him, petting and caressing him until he calmed.

“Suck you, John. Suck you,” whimpered Sherlock, turning his head. “Greg…fuck Mycie…in me,” he said, through heaving breaths.

John did not need to be asked twice. He shuffled up to straddle the hairless chest and gazed down to catch his lover’s lazy-eyed, sex-stupid gaze. Sherlock smiled beatifically, grasped John’s hips and opened his mouth around the thick head of his cock; John was lost.

Mycroft hastily fumbled in the bedside drawer, pulled out a tube of KY, and scrambled back again. Sherlock moaned around John as his brother’s long, lubed finger breached him again, followed swiftly by a second, then a third.

Greg stood at the very bottom of the bed, grunting bestially as he arranged Mycroft to his satisfaction, positioning him so his arse was at the perfect height at the end of the mattress. He grabbed the tube from the red-head, slicked his fingers and prick up with perfunctory haste, and pushed two fingers at once into the elder Holmes brother. The tight internal muscle gave way to him, and he pressed through without much resistance. The sounds and sights and smells of Sherlock Holmes sucking John Watson, humming and slurping, overwhelmed him. Evidently, the echoes of baby brother begging and coming from the stimulation of a shaving brush had made Mycroft slack and open. Greg was, as ever in such moments, eternally grateful for this wanton little orgiastic family.

Unable to hold back, Mycroft pushed himself forward, panting, shakily lining up the flushed tip of his prick with his brother’s pulsating arsehole, as his own was probed and teased. His natural fluid added to the lube and shaving foam, and it eased the way as he sank balls-deep into Sherlock's loosened passage in one long slide. He let out a continuous keening groan, his breath juddering, hips stuttering at the overwhelming, head-spinning joy of it. Lust pooled in his gut and he opened his own legs wider, spreading himself for Gregory at the same time as he jerked helplessly up into Lock.

“Oh, yess…,” hissed Greg from behind him. “Oh, show me how you fuck your brother, Mycie Holmes. Fuck him while he sucks our John, and I’ll have you…” He pushed the very tip of himself into Mycroft's throbbing hole, glorying in the way his girth stretched the tender flesh until it closed fully around him.

Mycroft shouted as he was filled - a nonsensical, visceral sound which caused all three of his lovers to groan appreciatively. They were suddenly all connected; Greg pushing and pulling at Mycroft’s hips as he fucked him, falling into easy rhythm with Mycroft’s thrusting into the helplessly debauched Sherlock, who in turn suckled and laved at John while he fucked his face. John’s neat, muscular arse bobbed up and down in front of Mycroft, who only wished there was a practical way of eating him out at the same time, without sustaining some kind of permanent neck injury.

As if reading his thought, Sherlock brought his hand round and up to Mycroft's mouth.

Mycroft smirked and sucked one of the elegant, slim fingers, wetting it thoroughly before Sherlock used it to probe at John's arsehole. It entered slowly, causing a low protracted 'oooh' from the good doctor, and a sudden yelp when Sherlock pushed up further to hit his partner's nerve-centre. 

The sound in the room was obscene and lubricious; wet and frictive, as four bodies of differing hirsuteness writhed together in decadent synchronicity.

Mycroft gave in first, unable to help himself, clutched as he was within the hot, slippery channel of his brother’s arse. He came with an almost outraged-sounding cry, his hips snapping forward with hard, faltering jerks.

Sherlock groaned at the sensation inside him, and that set John’s orgasm in motion.

John grunted as he emptied himself down Sherlock’s swallowing throat and pushed back onto his questing finger.

And finally, Greg unleashed himself, pummelling into Mycroft almost brutally as he forced his cock as far as it would go. He bit down on the pale, sweaty shoulder in front of him, and spent himself against his lover's prostate in juddering waves.

“Ohgodohgod…,” whispered John, rolling away and collapsing with his arm across his eyes.

Stunned silence fell, broken only by harsh gasps and laboured breathing. 

Greg’s legs shook as he too flopped down on the bed, wrapping a shaky Mycroft to him. Sherlock’s hand flapped around, seeking contact with anyone as he drifted off, sated and calm. They fell into a deep, replete sleep, spread across wet towels and detached curls - and sticky, foamy patches that no-one could be bothered to dry.

Greg woke some time later, blinking dazedly and setting off a chain reaction of wakefulness. There was much yawning and stretching as they all gradually came back to themselves, aching in places they didn't know they had.

Sherlock sighed contentedly, and Mycroft grumbled as his back complained at him.

Greg shook himself and slapped at his face to brisk himself up. “Well…,” he began, before realising he was lost for words. Again. 

“Fuck,” said John, succinctly summing up the general feeling of the assembled company.

The Holmes brothers merely grinned, alert and bright-eyed once more. They shared some unspoken thought between them as their brains came back online, which may have been something ineffably complex, or may have been as simple as 'that was nice, wasn't it?'

“All that for a bloody haircut,” giggled John, rumpling Sherlock’s sweaty crop with his hand. Sherlock lazily waved him off before grappling him into a possessive cuddle and making him squeak.

Mycroft stroked at his brother’s hair, running it through his fingers and admiring his handiwork. Yes, that would be perfectly neat and tidy when it was clean and dry. Though he was concerned about the bodily regrowth. He’d most likely bear the brunt of the whining when it started itching. Ah, well. What were big brothers for?

“I appreciate you letting me,” he said, simply, and received a blissed-out grin and a bite on the fingers in return.

“He’s in a good mood now,” said Greg, innocently. “But it won’t last.”

They looked at him curiously. John eyed him with rightful suspicion.

“Like they say,” he elaborated, with a particularly familiar brand of mischief in his eyes. Mycroft winced in anticipation. “Hair today, gone tomorrow…”

Greg grinned as he waited for this appalling missile to land – then bolted to the bathroom to be first in the shower, amid a hail of pillows, and despairing groans, and dark threats to report him to Amnesty International for crimes against comedy and foursomes.

**Author's Note:**

> Lovely to hear from lovely people. x


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